


Written with the Body

by Fellaway



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Angst, Canon References Through Current Season, Character Study, First Time, Friendship, M/M, Original Character(s), Pre-Slash, Slash, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 05:31:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10507278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fellaway/pseuds/Fellaway
Summary: Now that Sonny has graduated school and passed the bar, he has time on his hands, time to explore more of who he already is.  This is a connected series of vignettes, forming one story, as he makes that exploration.  All roads lead to Barba.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is Sonny/Original Male Character only. Obliquely references 18x7 Next Chapter and 18x11 Great Expectations.

The sky hung heavy and white with snow, as Sonny climbed the front steps of his apartment building, a bag of new books in his hand. Novels. Not for work, not for school, not for the bar. Reading, just for himself. Now that he’d graduated law school and passed the bar, Sonny had time. Time to fill, with reading and sleep, with friends and family, with his niece, with cooking and his camera. Nights and weekends fit around his job at SVU. Nights and weekends to himself. For himself.

Sonny leaned against the baluster of his stoop and lifted his face up, as he felt the first brush of snowflakes against his skin. He closed his eyes to the silent touch, cold and sharp, like a tiny sting of glass, and opened his mouth to catch them on his tongue.

He had time now. For reading. For sleep. For his niece and his family. For his friends and cooking. For catching a moment in a picture.

For eating snowflakes. For melting the brittle cold in his mouth till it disappeared.

Sonny held still and breathed. He took a last taste, felt the cold warm and dissolve, and he smiled. He opened his eyes. He opened his eyes to dark hair and a bright hazel gaze watching him. Watching him and grinning.

Nathan, his downstairs neighbor, holding a pizza box and a six-pack of beer.

“Taste good?” he asked.

Sonny’s smile widened and he shrugged one shoulder.

“Wanna try something better?” Nathan shifted the pizza box and six-pack a bit higher and cocked his head towards the front door of their building.

Nathan, his downstairs neighbor, with the swimmer’s body, California tan, and a face yet to feel the shadows of thirty years.

Sonny had time. He had time, now, for reading and sleep. For his niece and his family. For his friends and cooking. 

For snowflakes, and for a moment.

He leaned away from the railing and stood straight. He felt his smile tug at his eyes and a thrum of energy spark along his skin.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

He had time, now, space between work today and work tomorrow. Between the last victim and the next. Between his own past and his own future. Between the fall of a hundred shards of glass and a million flakes of snow.

ooOOOoo

They sat on the hard, bare floor of Nathan’s apartment, in front of his worn couch and under his high, arched window, the silhouetted snowfall dancing across the wood. The heat in the room melted the snow in Sonny’s hair, and he felt its warming trickle across his scalp, like the fingers of a hand.

Condensation beaded the neck of his beer bottle, before he smoothed it away with a swipe of his thumb. Before the beads joined together and there was no space between.

They ate and they drank, and Sonny watched Nathan. He watched Nathan watch him. Watched Nathan’s eyes kindle as Sonny’s mouth formed on the lip of his bottle, as the swallow of beer made his Adam’s apple bob.

Sonny held Nathan’s eyes as he set the bottle aside. As he felt Nathan’s hand touch his belt buckle and waistband, as his knuckles grazed Sonny through his shirt, hard and sure. As he felt the curl of heat inside. Inside the room. Inside himself.

In Nathan’s hand.

Nathan, his downstairs neighbor, with the swimmer’s body, California tan, and a face yet to feel the shadows of thirty years.

Sonny felt his breath exhale, caught between them, as he put his hand over Nathan’s, as Nathan’s pulled him across the floor.

They don’t kiss.

They don’t taste the pizza and beer in each other’s mouths, or the flavor of the man. They don’t nip at lips or touch with tongues. They don’t bite or lick. Or caress.

They don’t kiss, but they fuck.

Sonny stripped Nathan, and Nathan stripped Sonny, Sonny ‘s shirt left on, spread wide open. Their hands don’t stroke skin, or shape planes and curves. Sonny’s hands rest above his head, like a man surrendering, as Nathan’s hands lift Sonny’s hips. As Nathan’s hands lift Sonny’s legs, spread and wide open.

They fuck.

Nathan’s cock filled Sonny. Nathan’s cock angled and pushed. Nathan’s cock pushed against him. Into him. Sonny arched and his hips canted, his back thrust against the wood floor, in a matching rhythm. 

Nathan’s cock pushed Sonny. Against him. Into him.

Sonny felt the stretch of muscle in his legs, the press of Nathan’s weight against him. He felt the warm spurt across his belly and chest, as he came from Nathan’s hand. He felt the quickening of Nathan against him, as Sonny clenched around him, as he came inside Sonny.

He felt Nathan strain, as he continued to thrust. He saw Nathan’s mouth twist, saw his eyes squeeze shut.

Sonny kept his eyes wide open.

Sonny tracked the divide of light and dark on the ceiling, from the fading day, and felt Nathan lean over him, in his own personal eclipse.

Sonny felt Nathan’s heat, over him and in him. He felt the heat of the room, and of his own sweat on his skin. He felt the gust of Nathan’s breath against his cheek and a single bead of Nathan’s sweat drop to his forehead. He felt his own sweat threading through his hair, like the sear of blood across his face. His own. And not his own.

He reached up his hand and swiped it away. Before the beads joined together and there was no space between.

ooOOOoo

They fucked, but they didn’t kiss.

Sonny loved to kiss. He loved the wet heat of it, the bite of teeth and the glide of tongues. He loved the drift of eyes closing, noses aligning, skin pressed in its own caress. He loved the closeness, the breath shared, the space in his head that loses itself to sensation.

He loved to kiss, best of all, with eyes wide open.

Sonny didn’t want to kiss tonight. He wanted the space and the air. He wanted to just be.

He looked out the window, at the white-dappled brick of the building next door. He wondered how he’d get to work tomorrow, if the storm got bad.

He felt the heat of bruises forming over his shoulder blades and wondered if he’d be too stiff to take his niece out to play in the snow when it stopped.

He heard the hush of the city and wondered which of his new books he should start with, or if he should just read _The Fifth Assailant_ again, now that he had his own signed, first edition. He wondered if the words would have more weight, now, if the author had touched the pages, if the reader knew the man.

Nathan’s breath hitched, his sweat a hot slide against Sonny, as they parted and laid side by side on the hard, bare floor. 

Sonny watched Nathan’s chest heave, before evening. He watched the flush cool from Nathan’s face and wondered if his own had been as red, if there was the same slumberous smile in his eyes. He wondered if he wanted to do this again sometime.

He wanted space and air, and he wondered why he didn’t know. 

Sonny heard the whisper of snow against the pane of glass. He heard the shatter of glass and the lancing cut of it in his skin, the wash of warm blood across his face. His own. And not his own.

Sonny turned back to the window. He watched the light dim with the day, and he watched the snow fall. He saw the spaces between, between work today and work tomorrow. Between the last victim and the next. The untouched skin between a hundred shards of glass. 

Sonny felt the solid floor beneath him and the heat of the furnace all around him. He felt the space and the air, and he slowed and he stilled. 

He felt himself just be, just between a million flakes of snow.


End file.
